


Cross That Line

by nightships



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, maine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 04:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8272124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightships/pseuds/nightships
Summary: Emma and Killian have a good thing going. Casual works for them, especially since he's often gone out to work on a fishing boat in the Gulf of Maine. When autumn comes Emma finds herself missing him more than usual. She chalks it up to the chill in the air and missed conversation, but something more permanent is shifting into place. She just needs to decide whether that's what she wants before he comes back, and before he leaves again.





	

It’s before five in the morning in the small town of Trenton, and Emma is already awake, dragging herself into a cold pullover at the expense of leaving her warm bed behind. The sheets are hopelessly wrinkled, her comforter half-fallen on the floor where she rolled out of it earlier, her pillow sitting sad and lonely on the very edge of the mattress as if trying to make her feel guilty on purpose.

I’ll be back tonight, she thinks forlornly, shoving her feet into her boots as cold as the floor under her socks.

Killian’s waiting for her, having risen early enough to pack his bag and quiet enough that she didn’t hear him. He’s always telling her she sleeps like the dead, and he says it again with just a look when she finds him waiting with a steaming mug of something warm at the bottom of the staircase.

“We’re not late yet,” she tells him with a hint of accusation, reaching out for the mug. She’s not sure he meant it for her until she tastes cinnamon and apple cider on her tongue. “You went to Granny’s?”

“She opened early for us today.” His meaning comes through clear enough that it slips past her sleepy haze. This is the last morning he and twenty-eight other men will spend on land for a while, and Killian, like the rest of them, wants to make the minutes count.

“Mm,” she hums. “Did she happen to send you back here with any baked goods?”

The question earns her a smile as warm as the mug she’s clutching. “She might’ve.” He nods to a paper bag on the counter just as she goes to see what’s waiting for her inside it, shaking his head at her . “It’s only enough for this morning. You’re going to have to fend for yourself while I’m gone.”

“I’ll live off the land,” she shoots back in a flat voice, her fingers scuffling past napkins and plastic silverware. There are two bear claws waiting for her, both warm despite the ice in the air outside, and it becomes considerably harder for Emma to keep up the grumpy act. She thanks him with a kiss pressed to his cheek, almond and spicy apple, and makes a real effort to get out the door.

They drive to the dock early, before dawn really has a chance to yawn across the horizon line, and Emma feels a strange urge to slow her speed the closer they get. It’s ridiculous — this is hardly the first time she’s dropped him off — so she speeds up just to shake the feeling away.

“Red sky at morning,” she notes when she parks, still not quite able to pull her hands off the wheel. It’s a poor attempt to drive off whatever’s bothering her, but Killian barely notices. He’s busy working his glove up under his sleeve, not quite giving her more than an answering murmur at first. “You ready to go?”

“Aye.” Another tug and the glove is tight, his other wrist secure beneath what must be five layers of jacket and coat. He gives her his full attention and, for a second, Emma thinks she sees what she’s feeling reflected in his eyes. “I’ll see you the tenth?”

It’s just early, she tells herself, nodding to answer him. “The tenth at…”

“At about seven. We dock at six-thirty, but I’ve got a bit to do before then.”

“All right.” Two or three seconds of quiet pass before the crunch of gravel behind them signals other fishermen arriving at the docks, saying their own goodbyes. His beard grazes her cheek when they kiss goodbye, a small and sleepy thing, and his cold zipper of his collar pressing against her neck a second afterward.

“Don’t get in too much trouble without me, Swan.” His playful voice reminds her that this is nothing they haven’t done before, and she smiles back in appreciation.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

 

The days pass a lot like they do when Killian isn’t out fishing somewhere in the middle of the Gulf of Maine. Emma spends her mornings patrolling the Hancock County-Bar Harbor Airport, settling disputes at the rental car place and pulling over the idiots who think it’s okay to drive twenty over in those same rental cars the minute they get off the lot. Things get exciting for a while— she gets the pleasure of arresting two drunken teenagers who decided to jump the fence to take a picture with the plane at Scenic Flights of Acadia — but the resulting paperwork has her procrastinating like nobody’s business.

Before she really realizes what she’s doing she has Google Maps open to the satellite view, and she’s gazing at the deep blue of the water in the gulf beyond Southwest Harbor. She doesn’t know exactly where Killian’s boat is right now, but she knows he’s probably freezing his ass off, wherever he is. With the heat pumping heavy from the floor register under her desk, she’s glad she can’t relate.

She tries to call him later when it’s dark outside and she’s four episodes deep into the latest Netflix original series, but it’s later than she realized. He’ll be awake in five hours, give or take a few minutes; she shudders just picturing pulling herself out of bed to face a chilly sea wind that early in the day. Part of her wants to hang up when a cheerful recording prompts her to leave a message, but it’s remarkably easy to silence it.

“You missed a great Leroy story today,” she tells his voicemail, slouching further into the cushions. One foot’s resting on the arm of the couch, the other dangling near the leg of the coffee table. It’s far too much room. “He found two kids digging through the garbage outside the baggage claim doors and yelled at them for a solid eight minutes. He was…you know that wheeze he does when he’s really mad? He was doing that, and the kids kept trying to interrupt him, so he tried to call security.”

Emma stops mid-laugh, realizing how boring a message like this probably sounds to someone who’s spending the night in his element. “Anyway,” she continues, her voice more subdued, “turns out they dropped an inhaler in the trash and needed to fish it out.” She sighs and looks out the window, watching light from someone’s headlights pass through her curtains.

“You’ve got to come back here,” she tells him more decisively, half a laugh still lodged in her throat. “I miss talking to you.”

Another several mornings pass, including one Emma has off. She spends it at the counter in Granny’s, running her fingertips along the ridges of the cinnamon shaker as she orders hot apple cider. She almost orders two before the woman corrects her mistake, giving her a careful look across the countertop.

“When’s he due back?”

“Thursday. Why?”

Granny just hums knowingly and turns to leave Emma and her confused frown at the counter. She tries to figure it out on her own on the ride home, taking the long way to her apartment so she can see the reds and oranges of the trees reflecting on the harbor. What’s left on the trees is almost golden in the morning sun, and the air in her car is spicy from her drink, but something still feels off, and it’s not just Granny’s lack of response.

She realizes what it is early the next morning when a phantom alarm wakes her, when her arm stretches across the bed to land on a chest that isn’t there. She’s been ordering two cups of cider instead of one. She’s taking the long way home so she can drive past the docks, and her eyes aren’t seeking out the trees alone. Every leaf that falls brings colder mornings — the first frost curled over the bay just yesterday — and she’s calling him about it like he doesn’t see it himself, like it’s important he doesn’t miss this moment and her grumbling about it. Emma’s hand curls onto the cool sheets across from her, and her eyes blink open slowly.

She’s used to counting the days until he gets back to town, but this feels different. This time, she’s counting down the days until he gets back to her.

* * *

 

Killian’s due back any minute now. Crisp autumn leaves are whipping along the docks at the water’s edge, trickling waterfalls of leaves down from the forest into the harbor waiting below. Ship bells clang, seagulls call, and Emma shivers as she waits on one of the benches, watching them fall and scrape the concrete.

She crosses her feet at the ankles, staring at a spot on her boot where mud leftover from last night’s catch caught on her heel, and tries to siphon the warmth from the sun as she waits for Killian’s boat to get here. Emma had hoped she’d find the boat waiting here for her when she arrived, but hadn’t let herself get much farther than hoping it. Killian is always telling her the science of the tides and the currents, explaining why they leave and arrive when they do, but she doesn’t remember enough of it to be able to judge for herself. Not like he does. It takes two hands to count the mornings he’d looked out her window and told her they’ll be ahead of schedule just by the way the wind was blowing. She’d teased him about it then, but she’s kind of wishing she had his opinion now. It’d be nice to know how much longer she has to wait before the anticipation swirling in her stomach calms down.

The bow of the boat she’s looking for peeks out from behind the forest, nosing its way into view and giving her a reason to forget how cold she is. The Cetacean always looks sleeker at a distance, but she prefers it up close, right in front of her and close enough to touch. She’d taken to cataloguing its little details while she waited for him to finish up on deck when she first started meeting him here. There was paint chipping away on the lettering of the name along the rail, making the N look more like R instead; there was a scar in one of the repaired sails that curved exactly like the fin of a shark; there was the boat bumper hanging over the side closest to her, the one with a crab pinching a seagull’s butt painted on by hand and dead barnacles. All of it's familiar, but her favorite sight by far is the pale, bearded man getting off the boat and walking toward her. Emma expects the moment to feel bigger, considering the week she’s had, but all of a sudden it’s like he was never gone.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, love,” he smiles, wrenching a beanie off his head and drawing it over hers. “You look cold.”

“I should have brought coffee,” she apologizes, “for both of us.”

“Don’t worry about that. I have a better idea.”

“You do?” She looks up at him, taking in the weariness and satisfaction in his eyes, catching the look that tells her without asking that they have a good haul aboard the boat.

“Aye,” he grins. “Granny’s hot cider.”

“Knew you were going to say that.”

The thought of it warmed them both on the car ride into town, but it’s nothing compared to two cups of the real thing in to-go-cups in her hands. She waits at his hip as he orders a carry-out dinner, promising Granny they’ll actually come in for a meal once he’s settled, and thoroughly ignores the smug look on the woman’s face. She knows it’s confusing him, but he doesn’t have time to ask before several more fisherman make their way to the counter, lining up for the first non-microwaved meal they’ve had in a while.

“Did Smee survive the trip this time?” she asks him after they’ve paid, lifting one of the cups in her hand to wave to the men so she doesn’t drop their dinner. “Or I guess, did the boat survive?”

“The boat survived…barely. He only just managed to lean far enough overboard before getting sick in the water.”

“What about you?”

“Did I survive?“ She nods. "Depends if you call sleeping on a cot in a cabin with twenty-eight other men — more than half of whom snore, mind — surviving. You’ve no idea how nice it is to smell something that isn’t fish or wrapped in microwaveable plastic.”

“Now’s probably a bad time to tell you I made fish for dinner, then,” she tells him seriously, glancing over her shoulder to really sell the expression.

“Don’t joke like that, Swan.”

“Who’s joking?” She slides in front of the driver’s side when he tries to open the door, pressing her hips against the window as she smiles up at him. It’s cold, but she works to keep her grin from flinching. “Let me drive. You just got back.”

“You just got off work,” he counters, only lifting his thumb away from the handle to skim along her belt loop. Emma has to duck away from that, too, if only to avoid the feeling of icy fingers at her side, but that’s a fight, too. Understanding blooms over his expression, and then his scowl is less playful. “And you were waiting for me for a while, weren’t you?”

“Not really,” she protests. It’s completely unconvincing, but she doesn’t answer the _how long_ his eyes are asking her. “Just let me drive. You can hold my cider if you really need a job to do.”

It’s too cold for him to slip off his coat and give it to her, but Granny’s is much closer to home than the docks. She handles the chill of her Bug’s leather seats for the time it takes to get back, dropping their carry out into his lap, and braves the particularly strong evening gusts that pull through the tunnel-like stairway of her apartment building like they’re nothing. If the leaves were scraping on the wind at the harbor, they’re positively raking across the steps now, rushing off to be somewhere besides here. Mid-October feels a lot more joyful, she notes to herself, with someone shivering beside her.

* * *

 

After dinner, Emma stops listening to the whistling wind in the stairway and starts listening to the sound of water hitting the bottom of the bathtub in the bathroom, to Killian humming a song he picked up from one of his fellow sailors. They’ve been home for an hour or so now, but she knows this part is important. He’s washing away the trip, reconnecting with a world that doesn’t bob beneath his feet. She used to try to give him time to himself when he first got home, but he’d stopped going back to his own place after landing a while ago. It didn’t take much convincing to stop suggesting it, especially when Autumn left them behind. She moves to the kitchen and starts to reheat his cider in a mug of her own when the water stops running, sipping at her own with a special gratefulness for Granny in her heart. They don’t have much in the way of homecoming traditions, but stopping by to see her is a big one.

The flutter returns to her stomach when he opens the door to the bathroom, steam rolling out around him. He’s traded heavy work pants for flannel sweats, his many water-resistant layers for a shirt that looks like it once had something screen-printed on the front. He’s the picture of comfort standing in front of her, damp hair and pink cheeks making it clear he’s washed the cold out of him. Emma’s half-inclined to do the same, but she’s been waiting for an evening like this for a while.

Something victorious leaps behind her ribcage when he pulls her toward the couch, and she’s a little more certain that she’s not the only one who’s been waiting.

“How long are you home this time?” She asks when her cup’s half-drained, her feet tucked on his to keep the blanket secure. He keeps hold of the other end, pressing his wrist into the fleece against her shoulder while he works on his own drink.

“Four days.”

“Four days?” He sounds entirely too happy as she counts the days in her head, twisting to look at him. He shouldn’t sound so happy. Maybe this wasn’t the homecoming she thought it was. Maybe he doesn’t —

“Four days,” he presses on, giving her a maddeningly patient smile, “but there’s good news.”

“Oh?” She asks, sliding her finger along the rim of her mug on the pretense of catching a stray drip.

“Aye. This trip’s only a week long, and then I’m home until the new season begins.”

Emma’s not sure what she was preparing herself to hear, but it isn’t that. Hope flickers quietly in her chest as she opens her mouth to ask him when he’d gotten official word, but then she takes in the expression she’d been avoiding a moment ago. “You knew you were going to get leave before you left, didn’t you?”

He wastes no time denying it, and a broader, softer smile covers his face now.“I might have asked for a bit more time off. The catch we brought in today certainly helped convince the captain he could make do without me.”

Part of her still doesn’t want to believe it, so she asks more, trying to look for any possible way she should be interpreting what he’s telling her. “Are the other guys going back earlier?”

He shakes his head. “Not all of them, and not for anything significant…but I would have thought you’d be happy to hear it,” he teases, watching her try to work it out on her own. Just like before at Granny’s, she’s annoyed with the knowing look he’s shooting her. Emma has half a mind to slip away from him, but he slides his arm up further around her shoulder, running his wrist over the edge where the blanket meets her shirt. “You weren’t planning to spend the holidays alone, were you?”

One tiny question, genuine concern disguised as playfulness, has her feeling warmer than any cup of cider could have made her feel. Her cheeks color with surprise before she can catch herself, and she stills entirely. She knew he knew her well enough, but she hadn’t expected him to see through to that part of her so soon — to see a woman who had talked herself into expecting nothing less than a holiday alone while he did the job he loves. She’d let him convince her to go into this with nights spent on her own and weeks without hearing from him at all, to expect the distance. She hadn’t planned for so much closeness.

“It’s not too much, is it?”

She shakes her head, still mentally working through it all. After another week he’d be back here all the time, constantly within reach. He’d be hers for the winter if she wanted him to be — that’s the real question he’s asking her. Do you want me to stay?

“I’ll still be working at the docks,” he continues, trying to salvage the conversation. “I won’t be in your hair if you’d like m—”

“Ssh.” She reaches out and takes his mug, having set her own empty one down a while ago, freeing his hand for her to grasp. “I like this just fine…if that’s okay.”

It takes him a second, but then his arm tugs more tightly around her, blanket be damned as she runs her own fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, enjoying the warmth from the shower still sticking to his skin. Everything around her is warm, most of all his arm between her shoulder blades, and when their lips finally meet she wonders how she ever convinced herself that casual was enough.

“Perfectly all right with me, love,” he murmurs, his free hand moving to wind around the curve of her thigh. He might have washed the smell of the sea off of his skin, but he tastes like salt and apple cider. She likes that just fine, too.

* * *

 

When Emma wakes up, it’s not to the sound of her alarm clock. It’s not to a sound at all — the feeling of fingers pushing hair away from her face is currently drawing her out of sleep instead. She knows the exact moment he sees she’s awake, because his fingers curl behind the shell of her ear and his thumb caresses the edge of her jaw. "Fine morning you’re missing, love,” he hums, shifting his knee between her legs. “It’s nearly half past eight.”

“We both have off today,” she answers back, groaning her words into his palm. The moment she gets out of bed is the moment she lets cold air roll over her skin. Staying here with him sounds much more appealing. “Don’t you want to sleep in?”

“I did sleep in.”

“I meant the normal human definition of sleeping in.”

He chuckles through a yawn and shakes his head, his hair quietly rustling against the pillowcase. “Actually, I thought we might go on a bit of an adventure.”

Emma’s heard that voice before. He only ever uses it when it’s not a big deal or it’ll only take five minutes. She opens her eyes, finding the blue of his and bright light filtering in through the window behind him. “Where are we going?”

“I’d be happy to tell you after we eat,” he tells her, lifting a brow challengingly. That confirms it; he’s planned something well beyond any definition that includes a bit. She tries to ask again, but he’s too quick, catching her lips in a kiss that takes every protest out of her.

“All right,” she relents a minute or so later, sliding her hand from his shoulder to the smooth end of his wrist. “But you’re cooking.”

They pull open her laptop between them on the kitchen counter as blueberry pancakes cook on the griddle atop the stove. Killian insists on turning a simple search into a treasure hunt, making her follow a route instead of just giving her the location they’re headed to.

“We’re about to drive right into the water,” she tells him, impatience clear in her voice. She gives an errant glance to the pancakes and pokes the edge of one with her spatula, trying to see if they’re ready to turn. “Is it the harbor?”

“Not quite,” he tells her, gesturing past Southwest Harbor toward the bottom of the screen. Emma scrolls along in street view until they pass a sign advertising the ferry boat schedule, and then it’s obvious.

“Swans Island? Really?” Her voice is critical, but only to try and hide the smile beneath it. He’s teased her about making a trip to “her” island since they met, but it’s never been more than teasing. Not until now, at least. “Aren’t you tired of boats?”

“It’s a bit different.” Killian’s smiling bright as anything, proud he managed to draw the joke out this long. “You’ll be there.”

Emma flips the pancakes with a little more urgency and turns back to the computer, considering their route. Whatever she says, she does like the idea of this little adventure with him. By the time they get where they’re going, it won’t be all that cold at all.

“What about later?” She presses, twisting to stand close to him. His arm winds around her as she taps his chest with the clean corner of the spatula, his expression patient as ever.“What are we going to do after we get back?”

“That’s completely up to you,” Killian answers, slipping his hand over hers.

Emma pretends to give it thought, tapping her chin with the spatula this time. Her pretense drops as she sets it down behind them, settling firmly in his hold. “Good.”


End file.
